


The Winner

by KelseyO



Category: The Lottery
Genre: Gen, Implied Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 23:18:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelseyO/pseuds/KelseyO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An epilogue to Shirley Jackon's short story "The Lottery".</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winner

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a school assignment.

Mr. Summers really didn’t mind the mess, because he ran the coal business and he was quite used to being covered in filth.  His shirts were always smudged with soot and his wife constantly fussed over his appearance, but he just nodded and continued about his day.  He actually liked the black that caked onto the fabric because it was proof that he worked hard and that he was good at what he did.  It was the same with the lottery; he made sure everything went efficiently and according to plan.  The only difference was that he went home covered in red instead of black.

Bobby Martin and Dickie Delacroix were peering curiously at Mrs. Hutchinson while the women kept their backs to her, chatting quietly about recipes and the flowers they were planting in their gardens.  “I was thinking of putting some gardenias next to my chrysanthemums,” Mrs. Dunbar said.

“I think they would look really nice together,” Mrs. Adams replied to her.

Mr. Summers rolled up his sleeves and began gathering the stones into two organized piles at the edge of the square, one for the stones that had blood on them and one for the stones that didn’t.  Mr. Cooley, one of his employees, would come by later to dispose of the soiled stones and to place the clean ones around the village.

Everyone was leaving now.  The men had to return to work and their wives needed to finish the chores that had been put on hold for the event.  Mr. Summers looked up after a while and saw that the square was nearly empty; the gossipy chatter, the pleasant conversation, the sounds of children playing, was all gone.  Now he could hear the flies starting to buzz around Mrs. Hutchinson and Dr. Goodfellow’s footsteps as he approached the square.

“Good afternoon,” he said to Mr. Summers.

Mr. Summers nodded and wiped some sweat from his brow.  “Good afternoon.”

The doctor knelt beside Mrs. Hutchinson.  “Another lucky year for both of us.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Summers replied pleasantly.  He cleared his throat and gestured to Mrs. Hutchinson.  “Let’s take care of Tessie.  It wouldn’t be nice to keep her out here for too long.”

They lay a sheet down on the ground.  Dr. Goodfellow took her wrists and Mr. Summers took her ankles and they moved her onto the sheet.  Mr. Summers folded the sides over her so she was covered completely and then Dr. Goodfellow scooped her into his arms.  He nodded once to Mr. Summers and then carried her away, and Mr. Summers turned his back to him immediately.

He approached the stool and lifted the box, its chipped wooden sides pressing roughly against his fingers, and he started walking back to his office.  This was the final part of his job until the next lottery and anyone looking out their windows could see that he carried the box proudly and authoritatively.  He nodded kindly to each person he passed in the street and they all smiled back to him; he was well-respected in the village for his dedication to running so many of its activities.  They all knew how much work he put into everything he did and made sure to voice their appreciation frequently.

The lottery was the exception.  Nobody ever thanked him for running it, nor did they ever praise him for his effort or remark that the process always went so smoothly.  Everyone came, participated, and then left, always polite and pleasant, nothing more and nothing less.  It wasn’t exactly a thankless job—everyone knew his name and thought of him as an extremely important man, so really, it wasn’t all that bad.

Mr. Summers passed by Bill Hutchinson’s house and glanced at the front door, where Bill Jr., Nancy, and Dave sat together on the stoop.

“Good afternoon, kids,” he called out to them with a nod, but none of the three children reacted.  Their faces were blank and they sat completely still.

Mr. Summers nodded again.  “Give your father my best,” he said, and continued down the street and around the corner to his office.  He tucked the box safely under one arm and made his way into the building, then went up one flight of stairs and turned left.  He opened the door that has his name printed neatly on the front and then closed it behind him.  Mr. Summers shifted the box back into both of his hands, placed it carefully on the shelf behind his desk, and the moment his hands left the battered wooden surface, his shoulders slumped and his breath caught in his throat.  He collapsed into his chair, leaned over his desk, and cried.

It had been eight years since Thomas was the one to not walk away from the lottery, eight years since Mr. Summers had watched his son, his only child, be stoned by the village, their friends, their neighbors.  Eight years since he had begged everyone to stop, much like Mrs. Hutchinson had today, and eight years since his pleas had been ignored.

He had hated that box ever since.  He loathed it so intensely that just looking at it made him sick.  Every year he tried to convince the villagers to agree to a new box and every year he was ignored, so he had started storing the box in the village instead of in his office.  He didn’t care where it was—the post office, the bank, under someone’s front porch—as long as he didn’t have to see it until the next lottery.

After a few minutes of letting his shoulders shake with sobs, Mr. Summers wiped his eyes dry and took a few deep breaths.  He went to the tiny closet in the corner and took out a clean white shirt, then took off the bloody one and folded it neatly and put it on his desk.  After he dressed again he brought his old shirt down to the furnace in the basement and threw it into the fire, and he swore he could still hear Mrs. Hutchinson’s screams.


End file.
